


sing to me, sweet spring breeze

by itisjosh



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Mental Health Issues, POV First Person, Seasonal Affective Disorder, clarke is the narrator by the way, i swear i'll update the other fics one day, it's 3 am and i'm doing this, lowercase for the aesthetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24035050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itisjosh/pseuds/itisjosh
Summary: she’s always a different person when spring comes. she’s always different no matter what, and though it’s hard for us, i think we’ve both learnt how to accept it now. she’s different every season, but spring is the worst.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	sing to me, sweet spring breeze

she’s always a different person when spring comes. she’s always different no matter what, and though it’s hard for us, i think we’ve both learnt how to accept it now. she’s different every season, but spring is the worst. she is never inside, always going out and dancing in the rain and picking flowers and braiding them in her hair. i wish i could understand her more, but there are no books or guides to dealing with this. to living with this. she barely speaks to me anymore, often ignoring me for days at a time. i’ve known her for five years now, and have been married to her for two of those, and yet i still cannot fully understand this. i wish i could. i wish i could figure out what was going on in her head, what i could do to help, but it’s so hard. i hear our front door open, and glance over to my left to check the clock. our clock. it’s three in the morning, and she’s finally come home. i hear our bedroom door open this time, and i sit up, looking at her. 

“you’re up early,” she looks at me, smiling. there are daisies in her hair. “how did you sleep?”

i didn’t. “i slept fine. why don’t you come here for the night?” she looks towards the window, and even in the dim light i can see her bite her lip. “i don’t understand.” i whisper, looking away from her. i don’t. i just don’t..i don’t understand any of this. i love her with my entire heart, more than i can say, but i still don’t understand.

“i’m sorry,” she takes a step back, already making her escape. though instead of leaving, she just sniffles, her hands snaking up behind her back to remove the daisies. “i’m so sorry. i don’t understand either. i’m sorry you married me.” i roll out of bed, taking a few steps closer to her, guilt weighing heavy in my stomach.

“i didn’t mean it like that,” i reach out, but she backs away. “please, i’m sorry. i didn’t..it wasn’t supposed to sound like that.” i know that my pleas are useless - she’ll never stay long enough for me to explain. and just as i assumed, she makes her escape, disappearing back into our garden. i hear the sprinklers go off, and then i hear the sound of her laughing. i wish i was better.

she comes back home five hours later, with roses in her hands and daffodils in her pocket. “i’m sorry.” she doesn’t look at me when she says it.

“so am i,” i look at her, though. she doesn’t meet my eyes, and it hurts, but this happens every spring. “how are you feeling?”

“bad,” she answers me, honestly. “i want to get better.”

“i do, too,” i don’t reach out this time. if i do, she’ll run. “i want to get better. i want to help. i don’t want you to feel like i don’t want to.”

“i’m sorry you married four different people,” she looks up at me, her eyes unblinking. “i..i think i need to go.”

i nod. “of course.” and so she does, disappearing once again, leaving a singular rose on the table for me. i never really know where she goes. i always assume she’s in our garden, because she mostly is. but sometimes she goes to the park, and other times, i don’t know where she is at all. i look back at our fridge, at our walls behind it. at the pictures there. she looks so different in every single one. she looks the exact same in every single one. i wish we were better. i wish i was better.

on the ninth day of this season, i decide to stop wishing. i can’t let her do this by herself anymore, and i’ve been less than a good wife in the past years. there are no books that describe her condition, no guides that i can use to help myself. so i make my own, using old scrapbooks and notebooks taped together, sticky notes and markers thrown astray on my desk. i keep track of her behaviours, of her patterns, what helps and what doesn’t. she comes back to me writing about her in the spring, and i barely hear her start to cry. 

“i’m going to get better,” she tells me. “i’m going to get better, because you got better for me.” i stand up, and this time she lets me hug her. we stay like that for a long time, and it’s the best i’ve felt in nine days. 

a week later, she comes home, her hair dyed back brown, her eyes brighter than they have been. she sets a box down on our table, sighing as i wrap my arms around her waist, resting my head on her shoulder. “what’s in the box?” i ask.

“medicine,” she turns her head, barely, and smiles at me. “i told you, i was going to get better.” i smile back, and i realize that this is the closest we’ve been in too long. 

she starts to take her medicine, starts to feel better. i keep writing, keep making notes and plans and making sure i understand her as a person, and not just as a disorder. years go by, and eventually i finish my notes, setting them aside on the same desk i used to write them on. she’s better, though she’ll never get rid of the disorder. i realize, now, that you can’t love away a mental disorder, like i assumed all those years ago. she still dances in the spring rain and waves flowers into her hair. and she still is hollow and cold and distant in winter, and she is still warm and bubbly and energetic and _wild_ in summer. and in fall, she still is calm and controlled and snarky, but she is less of a different person, and more of the same. more of the same person, who simply is unable to keep the same personality and face, which is not her fault at all. 

“what are you thinking so hard about?” she asks me, snuggling up to look out the window with me. 

“you,” i smile at her, and she smiles back. “how do you feel?”

“good,” she sighs, watching the rain fall. “i want to go outside.” i nod. it’s spring, this is natural for us. there is no reason i should ever keep her inside, especially not in spring. 

“can i come with you?” i ask, for the first time. 

“of course,” she beams at me. “thank you.”

“for what?”

“for being you.” 

i smile even more. “i should thank you, too.”

“oh?”

“yes,” i confirm, “for being yourself. for loving me even though i wasn’t trying to learn.”

“the important thing is that we’re both..” she turns her head sharply, noticing something i can’t see from the window. “that we’re both comfortable. that we both know, and that we both..helped. and learnt. i love you.”

“i love you too.” 

spring passes by and brings summer with it, and though it’s still hard and will always be hard, it’s still easier. it’s easier for us now. i watch as she’s whisked away by the rain and snow and heat and wind, and i love her every single time.


End file.
